He breathes against my mouth. Our lips are a hair’s breadth away from one another, mine parted, aching, throbbing, with longing. Kiss me! I want to cry out, but this is not part of the game. He breathes against my mouth, and our eye contact is intense. I can feel the heat of his body, a long line of heat, so close to me, so near to me. I want to envelop myself in him. But this is not part of the game.
Take off your dress, he whispers into my mouth.
I grab the short hem and pull it up over my head, discarding it like a rag onto the floor. I am wearing nothing but a pair of see-through panties, a choice made for this occasion. My heavy breasts are free from confinement– not something I would normally do otherwise. He gasps softly. His appreciation is palpable. He loves my tits. Have I ever told you how pretty your nipples are? he asked me once. The memory makes me blush. I am a whole body blusher. My porcelain skin takes on a hint of rouge in my cheeks, and my chest, and maybe even my tummy.
He circles me like prey, eyes taking in every inch of me. My hair is long again, nearly down to my bum, and when he comes round to my back, I grab the thick mane and pull it forward, baring the ink on my back to him. I shudder as I feel him bend, and his hot breath is at my right shoulder. Suddenly, my arousal is unbearable, and all he does is breathe against the lines and marks on my skin. I ache for him to kiss them, to stroke them, to bite them… to mark my marks, in the wanton way he does. But this is not part of the game.
His breath beats steadily down my spine, until I feel it at my lower back, pulsing against that well-known area, that stereotypical place for tattoos, the little piece of skin real estate, that I, myself, have built upon. The need to have him drag his teeth over the words there is heady, and I am covered in goosebumps.
Off, he whispers. That one syllable seeming like a thousand, imprinting upon my skin. Fluttering like little wings offoffoffoffoffoff.
I hook my thumbs into my panties and slide them down my hips and thighs until I am standing in a pool of lace. I step out of them gingerly, and he snatches them before I can toe them away, his fingers nearly grazing my flesh, nearly ruining the game.
When he stands in front of me again, the fabric is wrapped around his fingers, and a second before he does it, I know what he’s going to do. I groan at the sight of him inhaling my scent from the lace, pressing the cloth to his face, devouring me, without touching me. I can feel heat radiating from my naked cunt. My thighs feel damp.
He drops the panties and leans down. He pants against my neck, against my collarbones, my shoulders. I let my head fall back, normally, an invitation, a silent cry of: more!
I want him to bite me, to tear into my skin like an animal, to leave me bruised and broken skin, to worry at the wound, to wrap his hand around my windpipe and make me gasp for air. I want his hand in my hair, and one on my face. But this is not part of the game.
He dips lower, his lips hovering at my right nipple, hard, and pebbled, a slightly darker shade of pearl and pink. He opens his mouth wide and moves forward. My nipple is in his mouth but he doesn’t touch my skin. I can feel the movement of his tongue, like he might lap at me at any moment, but we both know he won’t. He is a clever tease, and it is electrifying.
I can feel his hands phantom caressing my skin, my stomach, my hips, my thighs. They trace lines and curves down my body. He kneels and his hands pass between my legs. I want him to grip my thighs and pull them apart. His breath is like a heartbeat at my pelvic bone. I hear a high keening noise, a whine, and it is me. Spread, he says. I do. When my feet are at shoulder width, he does something unseemly. He lays beneath me, right beneath me, from behind. His head on the ground, in between my arches, positioning himself beneath the center of my body. I am completely exposed to him. My embarrassment rises heavy, fogging my brain, making my head swim. As if this was not all enough, he says the word I would’ve never expected to hear at this moment: kneel.
I fidget, flailing in my mind, grasping at something I cannot touch. My body is blushing once more. He knows my struggle, the physicality of it, the thoughts that are coursing through my brain at this moment, knows it well, relishes in it. I let my head fall back onto my nape, staring at the ceiling, breathe in, breathe out, my vision is swimming. I am lightheaded and woozy, and my skin is covered in goosebumps.
Kneel, he says again. A whisper against my ankles.
I squat down first, rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet, nervous, nervous. One knee touches the ground, just outside of his head, my leg flung out from his wide shoulders, and still my skin brushes up against him. We are touching, but the spell is yet unbroken. My other knee comes down tentatively and I sit up straight and tall, perched over him, hovering, legs split wide, making it harder to hover so high. I wiggle until I am comfortable and also closer to his face, making me less comfortable.
He breathes against the center of me, wide open and wet, my body betraying me. I can feel how deep the warmth and wetness goes. I am hyper aware of my body, of the way my inner muscles tighten and clench, of just what I must look like in front of his face, split and aching. He whispers sweet and dirty things into the heart and heat of me, and I know what is going to happen. He says it as I realize it, and I feel incomparably dirty and base. My sweet, girly juices, drip down my thighs and onto his face, coating him in my arousal. I want to die a little inside, the urge to double over and hide myself is strong. All of my muscles tense, and my tell-tale fidget gives me away. His long, strong arms wrap around my thighs from behind, palms flat against my tummy, he sits up and puts me down, quick as a flash.
I am on my back and my pelvis is pulled up high to him, legs resting over his shoulders. I watch his tongue dart out a moment before I feel it against the very center of me, lapping at my sex, tongue dipping in against me, to taste me, to drink me. This is not part of the game.
But I am moaning and writhing beneath him. His hands hold me at my stomach and I have no room to move or to squirm away; I am trapped in his grasp, feet dangling over his shoulders and kicking at his back. My fingers climb my breasts, up to my belly and grip at his. They stroke his arms and then reach forward, stretch to touch his hips, the outline of his torso. To touch him. I hold him fiercely where I can reach while he devours me. He takes his time with me, and when his eyes meet mine, I am in tears, of pleasure, of submission to this intimate act of power play.
This is the game.